Back In The Village
by thefalseheretic
Summary: A short story told from the perspective of a prawn during the military crackdown on District 9. Please comment on my writing and if possible give advice on what I should do better. (And sorry that the second half of the story is written sort of awkwardly)
Of all the possible frequencies of soundwaves, the ones possessed by gunfire are unique in their affects on the immediate psychology of a person. The piercing, automatic droll of the firing mechanism in action, the violent combustion of the gunpowder in the cartridge, the flash of fire erupting from the muzzle like a fearsome drake spewing its blazing bile unto the countryside, and finally the eerily peaceful clink of the casing bouncing off the Earth in its graceful dance all invoke a certain fear into the minds of mankind and mine alike. In fact, the only potential aspect of a gunshot more mortifying than the firing of the weapon itself are the potential howls of agony and the guaranteed screams of fear from those being fired upon. As a consequence of these symptoms, it should come as no surprise that when I was promptly awoken from my slumber by a symphony of violence emitted by these ballistic instruments, I was in quite a state of dismay and fear. From within the confines of the small, corrugated metal shack I had constructed for myself on the outskirts of the favela you humans refer to as District 9, I could hear the choir of the dying and damned, the orchestra of bullets, and the drumming noise of the tanks, trucks, and helicopters enveloping and invading the extraterrestrial refuge. Quickly I gathered together what things I considered worthwhile of my short time: a few valuables I'd found amongst the slag and scum throughout the confines of my neighborhood, some cat food, and a blaster I'd smuggled off the mothership when we had first arrived at Earth. However, before the opportunity to run to safer regions of the reservation arose, the squealing noise of a truck's brakes permeated the air and only seconds afterwards a rather hostile and violent knocking on the rusted door of my residence forced me to abandon my dreams of escape. As I opened the door, a rather young-looking human, maybe in his early 20's stood before me and uttered "Lieutenant Hans Baumstark sir, I am here to inform you of the involuntary migration of all residences from the area to a new, more aptly-suited facility called District 10 farther north in the countryside. I require your consent to participate in the migration. The forms are on the hood of the vehicle behind me, if you would be so gracious as to sign them for us so then we can proceed along our way." Based on the gentleman's kind nature, I was puzzled by the occurrence of gunfire in the background. Nevertheless, I reluctantly emerged from my dwelling, giving a series of clicks indicating my approval (not like the human would have understood anyways). As I walked to the truck however, the situation became more apparent to me. Of the dozen or so shacks in close proximity to mine, violence or arrests had happened at seven of them, and three of the remaining five hadn't been visited yet. One of the shacks, where the eggs that one day would metamorphose into the children of my people were being held, was being torched by two drunken officers, laughing and drinking hard liquor liberally. Enraged, I drew the blaster at my side and pulled the trigger on both of them. Instantly vaporized, the super-heated blood within imploded them into a cloud of sanguine mist and a pile of sizzling entrails that quite resembled bacon atop a hot stove. Despite my perception of my actions as heroic and vengeful, Lieutenant Baumstark was not as pleased, and upon drawing his rifle I had no choice but to put him down. The kill brought me no pleasure, as opposed to the deaths of the two bastards by the pulse of the same weapon just seconds earlier. The Lieutenants death only brought remorse, he had no need to die. Unfortunately however, that thought was only succeeded by a more painful one. A .50 caliber hollow point bullet pierced through my shoulder blade, shredding the exoskeleton as it completed its flight through my upper right arm and out into the engine of the truck. The arm was almost completely off, blood oozing out of the cavernous wound onto the arid ground, and as I bled out gazing at the clear blue sky, I found my final solace in knowing the fucker who shot me has to pay for the motherfucking car insurance on that truck.


End file.
